Crossword

seven | 家

AT SEVENTEEN, YEN THINKS SHE KNOWS HOME.

It's not where she is right now, though. Fear is a vice that's been gripping her ever since her father showed up at their apartment.

It's not that she doesn't like her father - she does, and they've been messaging ever since she reached out a year ago. She's been trying to get better at staying in contact with people. Nowadays, she even grabs coffee with him, sometimes.

It's that he's here, talking to her mother, which he hasn't done in six years.

Yen sits alone in the living room. The black screen opposite her is off, and her feet are on the small table, a book in her lap. A lone lamp does its best to brighten the room. Overhead, a fan spins.

Exams start in a week. Her fingers drum on the book. For the past hour, she's been trying to study, but the pen hasn't moved from the desk. Instead, all she can focus on is the voices from the kitchen.

"You can't afford it," her father's voice says lowly.

"We can," her mother insists. "We've been managing fine. I'll just work harder, get that promotion they've been talking about. It'll be alright."

"And then?" A small thump. Yen imagines her father's elbows landing on the desk, his head in his hands, like he always does after a long day at work. "Yen eats half of what she should and spoons the rest into Jia-Le's bowl. You've got a two-bedroom apartment with three growing children. When was the last time you bought something for yourself?"

Her mother sounds tired. "Are you suggesting that I can't provide for them?"

The sigh is so loud, even she can hear it a room away. "I know you haven't been taking the money, and I'm not going to force you to. It's your choice."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying you should let me bring Yue to therapy."

The book falls onto her lap.

Yue. Her baby sister. The only person in their family who'll drop coins into beggars' bowls, who'll stop to pet stray dogs' ears, who'll stay up until one o'clock baking chocolate chip cookies because they're Jia-Le's favourite and he has an exam the next day.

She holds her breath. In the kitchen, her mother pushes back her chair and grabs the remnants of their dinner. Porcelain clatters in the sink. The tap runs.

In a daze, Yen gets up and walks towards the kitchen to offer to help with the dishes. She puts her hand on the handle, but before she can press down, she hears a choked sob.

Her father stares straight ahead, but it's like he doesn't even see her. In the dim lighting, shadows are cast over his face. A lone tear slides down his cheek.

She has never seen him cry.

Her mother stands in front of the sink, shoulders hunched over. Yen's chest aches. Her mother has looked so much older recently - wrinkles are starting to line her face, frown lines permanently etched above her eyebrows. She's found too many strands of white hair in the bathroom.

Her hand falters. She does not press down. Instead, she turns away and runs.

Her feet bring her to the train station, and she gasps out, "Marina Bay." She doesn't know how she gets on the train or how she gets off. All she knows is that she has to get away, and she's such a coward for running, but it's all she knows how to do.

She can't help but slip back to another night not too long ago, when she felt like she was running away like this. Raindrops slid down windows, flashing lights and maps detailing the next stops. Overhead, a robotic voice announced that they were approaching the next station.

I think we should break up, Junkai said.

Her voice sounded hollow, even in the empty carriage. I agree.

You made me happy. The doors slid open. Neither of them moved. You make me happy.

I could have loved you if I'd given myself the chance, she whispered.

It was the first time she realised that Junkai's smiles could be sad. You wouldn't have loved me, Yen - you would've loved the idea of me you built.

A lone raindrop slid down the window. Outside, the scenery dissolved into neighbourhoods, familiar from the four years since they moved here. Yen watched as lights began to flicker off. Next station, Orchard.

She closed her eyes. The train bumped along the tracks. The rain didn't stop.

Orchard.

Yen got up and walked towards the door. Something - maybe it was a year's worth of memories - made her pause. She turned around.

Go, Junkai said, smiling. Go home.

Now, she realises she's standing in front of Jiaxiang - not the new one in the Shoppes, but the one she's grown up in. It's started to pour - for some reason, it's rained a lot this summer - and her clothes are almost completely soaked through.

The door is open. She ducks in, intending to leave as soon as she's dry.

Until she sees Jun at the back of the restaurant.

His back faces the door, but even from here, she can see that he's different. He's grown taller, for one. His back is learner, more sculpted, and she wonders if he's spent the years apart keeping up running like she has. He's wearing white.

She could never think straight when he wore white.

She knows she shouldn't stay. She's done so well with avoiding him for the past five years, and he looks so peaceful, she doesn't want to disturb him. But so many of her memories involve Jun - learning to ride bicycles, cook, mastering tongue twisters.

She just hasn't learnt how to forget him.

Beyond the door, the rain continues to poke holes in the clouds. Yen steps away from the door quietly and slides down the wall, her hands resting on her knees.

A hand slips into her pocket, as if the scribbled dorm number and landline would still be there. She thinks of all the times she took the train to the Tan Kah Kee station, just four stations from her house with one transfer, the closest one to Jun's school. Waiting outside the gate, trying to figure out how she should go in. What she should say.

How can she expect him to say something now, when she hasn't in five years?

 When she looks up again, though, Jun is already looking at her. His face doesn't betray any emotion. Her heart feels like a deer trapped in a cage. 

When he finally speaks, she realises how much she's missed the sound. "Yen."

"Jun."

"What are you doing here?"

"I -" I don't know. I don't even know what I'm doing. I feel like everything set in all at once and it hurts and surely humans weren't made to feel this much pain. I can never move on because whenever I look in the mirror I see her and whenever I do anything I see you. I thought I was better. I thought wrong.

And then she thinks of Junkai, of the year they spent together, of the way he'd always take her home. Of the way he'd buy her Old Chang Kee curry puffs and take her to get chicken rice and tapao wan tan min from her favourite shop, a half-hour train ride from his house. Of him letting her go.

Go home.

She stares at her knees. Her voice comes out as a whisper. "I came home."

✽

tapao 打包
think food delivery, but you go and get the food yourself from the restaurant

wan tan min 云吞面
noodles with spiced minced pork dumplings (best fried) and barbecued pork